Dust covered the floor like powdered sugar, except for a visible disturbance within the layer. And there were wood shavings and flaky particles, like coconut flakes on a cake.
There was a knob attached, not only to the outside, but also the inside of the panel. I stuck my head into the space. An icy draft descended upon me from the darkness above. A sliding door replaced by a panel? There were no visible motors or electrical wires, no ropes, no pulley mechanisms. It was definitely a remnant of an old dumbwaiter when the row houses were first built.
The discovery was equivalent to having a couple of large cups of coffee and two aspirin. I was more alert than I had been in days. Logic prevailing, short of walking through walls, this was the entrance point into my apartment. It was time to follow the trail and see what was at the other end.
I grabbed the opportunity like low-hanging fruit, stepped in, and looked up. The space felt like a small shower enclosure and lifting my arms was impossible without elbowing the walls around me. Once my eyes got used to the darkness, I made out a rope dangling from above. The breeze was even stronger now and there was a faint sliver of light coming from a source less than ten feet up.
Chapter 17
A faint spark ignited in the back of my mind, implications obscure and vague caught fire, then fizzled. Had I not just questioned my sanity, inspected my body, climbed in the attic? I wanted to see my madness through until the very end and decided to investigate further.
I stood quietly in the kitchen, listening. I went from room to room; there was no cracking, no wailing, no flushing toilets, no water running upstairs. All I knew was David Lieberman lived in an apartment with an identical floor plan above mine, while the other two apartments next door were under construction. I had seen some of the workers but never talked to any of them, didn’t even know how many there were. They wore hard hats and passed me in the hallway carrying boxes of tiles, wood, countertops and kitchen cabinets. They disposed of the rubble and debris through a bright yellow construction chute leading to a green metal container sitting outside in front of the building, but I had seen some of the workers carry boxes outside too large to fit through the chute.
I stepped outside my apartment door and listened for any sounds in the hallway. The church bells across the street earlier reiterated the fact that it was Sunday and the construction site was abandoned explaining why there was no whistling, no banging, no screeching of saws and other power tools coming from across the hall. The building was eerily quiet.
The construction site was straight across from my door, its entrance covered with a heavy blue tarp. I moved its first layer. Then the second layer. I stuck my hand through and my fingertips bumped against a smooth surface. I parted the tarp’s last layer and realized a door had been installed. Identical, metal and fireproof, as the one leading into my apartment. And it was locked.
I went upstairs, knocked on David Lieberman’s door and waited. I knocked again. No answer. Less than a minute later I stood in my kitchen dialing his number. I heard the phone ringing through the ceiling. The answering machine kicked in and I hung up. I dialed his cell and it picked up on the first ring.
Beep. I’m sorry but the person you called has a voicemail box that has not been set up.
After I hung up the phone, I stepped back into the dumbwaiter. The end of the rope dangled from above, swinging back and forth, and its end tied into a large nautical knot. I tugged gently but it didn’t budge. I pulled harder. After a few tugs, I used my entire weight to test its strength. I was weak, but I was determined. I held on to the knot, locked my elbows and, inch by inch, moved, with my feet, up the wall. My slight frame and the pounds I had lost the past few weeks made up for the strength I didn’t have. My hands took turns reaching up the rope, moving higher and higher until I was perched at the very top of the dumbwaiter.
I listened for a few seconds but only heard the beating of my own heart. My arm muscles twitched and I felt like a bird trapped in a chimney. A sliver of light escaped from the panel in front of me, it was not enough to illuminate the walls around me but sufficient to make out most of my surroundings.
I ignored my sore leg muscles but knew I was going to start spasming under the weight of my body eventually. I felt my way along the bottom crack of the panel, one foot pressed against the wall, the other pushing against the panel. I pulled back my right foot and kicked the panel. It popped out of its frame. I swung back to gain momentum and flung myself into the light. I allowed my muscles to rest and looked around.
My first thought was one of confusion; had I walked in circles and ended up at the same place? This was my kitchen; same flooring, same cabinets, same everything. My second thought was what wasn’t there. No sponge in the kitchen sink, no coffee maker on the counter, no garbage can, no mail, no newspaper. It was the apartment of someone who either just got here or was about to leave.
There was a tool belt draped over the pantry door knob. Sitting within the dust and debris from the panel I realized I had landed on the cold tiled floor of David Lieberman’s apartment.
My third thought was to snoop around.
I started pulling the kitchen drawers open, all of them empty but one. Mismatched silverware and matches, a can opener, a piece of string, and a few pencil nubs. I opened the cabinets; lonely dishes and boxes of cereals neatly lined up.
A cardboard box sat on a cheap folding table and a few more flattened cardboard boxes were stacked on the floor. Two metal folding chairs rested against a wall.
I pushed open the bathroom door. There were the usual items – shaving cream, a toothbrush, and a bar of soap on the rim of the sink – and a box of Moldex hearing protection ear plugs, still sealed, under the sink.
I opened the mirrored cabinet above the sink: aspirin, Alka Seltzer, and nasal decongestant. On the top row sat a small terracotta army of medicine containers, all filled to the brim. A couple of containers were almost empty, I recognized allergy medication by name, some pain medication.
The bedroom next to the bathroom contained a couple of large cardboard boxes marked with colorful moving company stickers which, after I gave them a shove, turned out to be empty.
Lieberman’s bedroom, dark and musty, was empty but for an inflatable mattress covered with a crumpled sheet, a flattened pillow and a desk without a chair. The desk drawers opened and shut with a screech as if they hadn’t been opened in a while. All were empty.
The living room was sparse, the furniture cheap and mismatched. A green threadbare throw rug, a couch with sad cushions and saggy pillows, and a coffee table with colorful magazines. They stuck out like a sore thumb, misplaced in otherwise gloomy surroundings. The magazines were travel related, titled Caribbean, Islands in the Sun, another one Afar. Luxury Hotels, Adventure Travel, all of them neatly laid out in a row.
A flat screen TV mounted to the wall, a dining table pushed under the kitchen counter. An office chair on a plastic mat and a frayed mouse pad, completed the bleak picture.
I hit the light switch. The dining room chandelier, too bright for the small area, cast a glaring light on its surroundings. The bookshelf on the wall next to the computer held a collection of leather-bound books on military strategy. The books were in chronological order, drab, colorless, with tatty spines, old and worn as if from a library giveaway. From Genghis Khan to Napoleon, to Waterloo and World War I, which had its own row. I pulled out the first book of the top row of books and opened it to the title page. The book smelled musty and grassy, with a hint of acid. It was a leather-bound edition titled Baron de Rais subtitled The Trial of Gilles de Laval, Baron de Rais. I leafed to the introduction and then read the blurb. ‘The ultimate portrait of the face of evil who has come to personify mankind’s greatest fears.’ I quickly shut the book and shoved it back into its spot and wiped my hands on my thighs.
The lowest shelf was full of Fodor’s Travel Guides; glossy, cheerful, in alphabetical order. Amsterdam, Bermuda, The Black Forest, Cayman Islands, Florence, Italy, London, Paris, St
. Thomas, Spain, Turkey. The collection looked new, with their spines intact, as if sitting on a bookstore shelf, waiting to be cracked open.
I continued to look around the room. Life in 1B seemed dreary. There was a utilitarian aspect to the place; no family pictures, no knick-knacks, harsh light made the rooms uncomfortable while an annoying fan clicked away above. Its clacking seemed to urge me to move on, reminding me that I had come here for a reason.
The file cabinet had a magnetic pull on me. I opened the top drawer and it swayed towards me, stopping just short of toppling the entire cabinet. There was an array of uniform folders with plastic tabs, handwritten capital letters, all tilted to the left, in unsteady handwriting. I stared at the tabs of the manila folders. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I’d have to give it a try.
I thumbed through a few folders, clumsily and not very efficiently. There were instruction manuals for TVs, computer warranty information, and contracts from furniture and computer stores. The last folder’s label was blank. I retrieved it and opened it. A collection of newspaper articles, some original, some photocopied, and some printed.
I skimmed through the articles:
Bruises that Cover Body Of Infant Are From Taser
Feral Child Rescued From Mobile Home
Boy Lived In Closet For Eight Years
Mom Charged After Baby Dies in Hot Car
Twins Die Of Negligence
Locked Away In Cage for Ten Years
Mom Of Five Hidden From Society, Living In Squalor
Remains Of Three Infants Found In Landfill
A thought took shape, it rose like dough, increasing its volume, a dense mass turning into a well-risen realization, yet I punched it down, refused to allow its expansion. I couldn’t allow the possible implications to take hold and so I stood rooted to the spot, heart in my throat.
This had nothing to do with Mia. Nothing.
I was oddly captivated by Lieberman’s collection of horror and the level of neglect he chose to collect for whatever sick reason.
True, we saw these stories every day, hardly a summer went by without a mother forgetting her child in a hot car, infants left unsupervised in cribs while mom enters a crack house or a casino. How could she, we ask, but all that remains is a faint memory, if that. I read about a mother once who …
As I scan the first story, I shudder. This is beyond a mother’s failing to button her children’s coats, depleted school lunch accounts, and uncooked dinners. Neglect so horrific that seasoned police officers broke down on the stand. There was a mention of bite and whip marks, lesions and scabs. Scattered feces, swarms of flies, smashed skulls. Six-year-olds appearing to be years younger, in diapers, scars covering their entire bodies.
There was a medical article titled Alarming Brain Scans and the Impact of a Mother’s Love, emphasizing that children nurtured by their mothers have larger brain structures, and that developmental delays affect children for the rest of their lives. And how parents of mistreated children were also neglected by their own parents. And how, therefore, neglect is a vicious cycle. A cycle that must be interrupted. And if interrupted, can be reversed. The article closed with a list of numbers to call when one suspects abuse and to intervene, for do we really know the extent of abuse around us, committed by our acquaintances, our neighbors?
Was I that neighbor to him? The one that neglected her child behind a façade of wealth, passing him with a designer stroller? A colicky baby that triggered images of cigarette burns and a bloated belly from malnutrition?
Ring.
The sound of the phone startled me. The phone’s caller ID displayed the name of the caller as Seagram Construction, Inc. When the answering machine picked up, the caller hung up.
I panicked, wondering if I had left the folders out of order. I scanned from front to back, they were at least straight and in alphabetical order. I closed the cabinet door and resisted the urge to open it back up again. I felt wary for some reason, but like a tune whose lyrics escape me, it remained elusive.
A melodic jingle made me turn, mocking the gravity of the situation. I looked out the window where I spotted an ice cream truck that had stopped in front of the building playing ‘The Mister Softee Song.’ The truck remained only for a short while and the jingle carried off into the distance.
When the phone rang again, I felt my stomach twisting into a knot.
Ring.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a green object. Somewhere in my gut there was a faint hint of acknowledgment, its cheerful green apple shade – or was it lime, malachite even – seemed familiar, yet oddly out of place in a room of tans and browns.
Ring.
The green object was perched on top of the bookcase, shoved back as if someone wanted it hidden from plain view but still wanted to know that it was there.
I approached the shelf.
Ring.
The answering machine picked up.
Please leave a message after the beep.
‘Mr Lieberman, it’s Frank from Seagram’s Construction. I know you are out of town, but I need to do an inspection on the progress before Monday. Call me when you get this.’
The phone went silent.
I closed my eyes, then opened them again. But there she was, like a ghost, fading in and out in her emerald glory. She sat atop the shelf. A plastic figure in a sitting position with a hidden button below her skirt that made her glow-in-the-dark wings wiggle. Tinker Bell, the tinker fairy from Peter Pan, and the centerpiece of Mia’s mobile above her crib.
My heartbeat made the top of my skull pound. She looked discarded, tossed aside. I reached out to her. My fingertips touched her wings.
Ring.
My hand jerked backwards. I held myself still, wishing I could will the phone to stop ringing.
Ring.
I had never looked at her this closely, had never really paid attention to her. A green strapless dress with a petal skirt. Blue eyes, blond hair. Pointy ears.
Ring.
Clear wings on her back. Tinker Bell, the fairy whose body turned fiery red when angered because her fairy size prevented her from holding more than one feeling at a time.
Please leave a message after the beep.
A female voice, sharp, impatient.
‘David, are you stuck in traffic or something? You’re not answering your cell and I can’t leave a message. You need to set up your voicemail. I’ll keep trying your cell.’
I grabbed Tinker Bell and, as if someone was chasing me, I made for the kitchen. I was neither crazy nor delusional, I was not losing my mind. The blanket was one thing. It could have fallen out of the stroller, I could have dropped it by mistake. But finding Tinker Bell in David Lieberman’s apartment was another thing. If he had found it, had run across it in some random fashion, in a hallway, or even on the street, by my car, or on the steps, he would have discarded it or left it to begin with. But Tinker Bell, in his apartment, left deliberately on top of a shelf, was proof that there was more to this man.
Am I going off the deep end again? I must focus. I must concentrate and think this through.
Tinker Bell was one thing, but was David Lieberman a kidnapper? The man who took my child?
The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I didn’t care where the truth was trying to drag me; I was willing to follow.
I entered the dumbwaiter and pulled the panel into its frame by its knob, and, to my surprise, it popped easily back into place. I wrapped the rope around my wrists, my feet securely placed against the walls.
Back in my apartment, I dialed Lieberman’s cell number, and as expected, it went to voicemail. I needed to find him. If I couldn’t find him, I’d have to find his sister, a woman whose name I didn’t even know.
I turned on the computer and searched for David Lieberman. The results were more than three million hits, ranging from Berkeley Law School to an Endodontic dentist in Oregon, University links and a blogger of vermin-catching techniques in Australia. The
usual social networking sites came up, some university faculty profiles, and hundreds of genealogy hits for names spelled remotely like Lieberman. I had a feeling finding information on David Lieberman would prove to be time-consuming and tedious.
I clicked on the image search tool and scrolled through the first ten pages, scanning the photos of the David Liebermans of the world. Nothing jumped out at me and after a while the pictures blended into a sea of eyes, noses, and smiles. I had been at this for hours and I was getting tired.
Finally, on page 23, a picture of two teenagers caught my eyes. The boy in the picture was a version of Lieberman decades ago. I clicked on the photo. It took me to the online archive of the Millbrook Park Townsman, a small newspaper in Dutchess County, New York.
Decades of headlines scrolled before my eyes. One entry jumped out at me: House Fire Kills Parents, Spares Children. No reference to the name Lieberman, yet there had to be a connection according to my search preferences. Another link caught my eye; Gruesome Discovery Made. I clicked on it and was directed to the full text. I began reading.
House Fire Kills Parents, Spares Children
DOVER, New York – A couple died early Friday, July 3rd, 1982, when a fire swept through their home on Sparrow Lane in Oniontown, a part of Dover, N.Y.
The victims were Abe Lieberman, 48, and his wife, Esther Lieberman, 41, according to New York Public Safety spokeswoman Irene McConnell. The couple’s children, David, 17, and Anna, 13, are being treated at Dover County Hospital for smoke inhalation. Anna Lieberman was also treated for minor burns to her hands.
According to Fire Marshal Donald Helm, the couple was trapped in an upstairs bedroom. ‘When we arrived, there was fire blowing out of the windows in the front,’ he says. The shed in the backyard and an old barn were also consumed by the flames. ‘The entire town is sad for the two children. It’s tragic.’
Little Girl Gone Page 18